Soft Target

Woman

Chapter One – Never Say Anything

Washington, DC

Mike studied the serious young woman in his office. She was taller than he was, maybe six feet in her short heels, and perhaps ten years younger. Contrary to the scantily clad starlets in Hollywood spy movies, most of the female spooks he’d met were unattractive, Valerie Plame being the exception.

She was good looking, but dressed conservatively in a dark blue skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket. No jewelry, except for a gold watch on her left wrist. She looked fit, but not athletic. Short hair, but still feminine, just touching her shoulders and almost matching the color of his, light brown.

He glanced down at his desk where he’d placed her card. Gerry Patton, Special Programs, National Security Agency, with a holographic image of the NSA seal – an eagle holding a large key in its talons – embossed in its upper right corner. All of which told Mike exactly nothing he didn’t already know.

He was mildly amused that she felt no need to speak. She was sitting there politely, watching him watch her. The silence lengthened.

She was revealing nothing, making it subtly obvious she was waiting for him.

Typical, he thought. They never tell you anything.

Mike occasionally liked to drink a beer with people from Langley, but NSA didn’t socialize much. The intelligence community was compulsively paranoid, but even by those standards NSA was over the top. They’d made deep black into an art form. Not a hint of light leaked out.

NSA never asks for help, Mike thought. They run their own programs and avoid the Pentagon like it was a leper colony. But this woman bulls her way in here unannounced, demands to see me, then hands me a note from the President, marked personal, and to hell with protocols and the chain of command.

He felt a twinge of discomfort as he read the note for the third time. It said, Problems at home. I need a favor, Mike. Talk to Ms. Patton. Then burn this yourself. It was signed with the initials he recognized, a scrawled CH, and yourself was underlined.

We’re wasting time sitting here looking at each other, he thought. How the hell can I talk to Ms. Patton when she won’t say anything? I don’t have a clue what’s going on, I can’t read her mind, and I don’t have anything to say. I need to get rid of her diplomatically so I can get back to work.

I’m sorry. Mike spread his hands in a placating gesture. Obviously there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m hardly an expert on satellites or codes.

That doesn’t matter, she said.

Her eyes were a vivid blue, and her gaze was appraising. It triggered a vague memory. Those eyes were familiar, but he couldn’t place why. It bothered him.

I don’t know much about NSA. I’m just a mud marine they cleaned up and put behind a desk.

The sign on the door says Director of Intelligence.

For Marine Headquarters. I push papers around and give briefings. I go to embassy parties and try not to hurt anyone with the salad forks. I can’t help you.

Why not? Her voice was a perfect contralto: Crystal clear, powerful, and vivid. She enunciated her words carefully. An opera singer or actress would be envious.

Mike shrugged. I’m not a spook. I’m not involved in agency matters. After the fall from grace of Petraeus, senior officers were more careful about boundaries.

It’s not that simple, General. Emotion ghosted across her face. It might have been a smile, but it was hard to tell. May I speak frankly?

Mike nodded carefully, doubting she would. The notion of someone from NSA speaking frankly was out of character.

I need your help in Oregon.

Mike frowned. Oregon was in the United States the last I checked.

It still is. Barely.

That’s within the jurisdiction of the FBI, or perhaps the Office of Homeland Security, not mine.

Your expertise is in the Middle East. Indonesia. Asia.

He raised an eyebrow.

The President said to call you ‘Twenty Mike.’ Why?

It was my radio call sign in Yemen.

Why’d you pick that?

I didn’t. My commander said at the time it was to remind me I was a pain in the ass.

She looked surprised. You were reprimanded?

No, cautioned. When he promoted me later, he gave me his stars to wear and said they’d brought him luck.

So why ‘Twenty Mike’? The caliber of a small cannon? I don’t get it.

I preferred gunships and tactical air with rapid-fire 20 millimeter guns – twenty-mike-mike – and antipersonnel lasers to conventional fire support.

Why?

He looked at her.

Humor me, she said. I want to know your reasoning.

He shrugged. Flexibility, security, mobility, resource conservation, and intensity. Why lug the bloody artillery and its supply train around hostile territory? It’s a lot of work, and then you have to tie troops up to keep your own equipment from being overrun.

But you did. Get overrun.

Mike winced. That was later. The call sign wasn’t a censure. It was a cautionary reminder. My command post got overrun, lady, but our TAC Air was still coming in hot and on target. They were there when I needed them.

She blinked and shook her head. I don’t understand.

Close is dangerous, like a knife fight in a telephone booth. The Air Force’s AC-130 Spectres haven’t used guns that light since Vietnam, because they are not considered to be expendable. They prefer to stand off, stay out of range, and lay down surgically precise fire with long range guns. Mostly 40 MM and up these days. Way up. 105 MM.

He was telling you to be careful? That the range of a gun that small is working too close?

Pretty much. Indirectly. Mike shrugged. It was a metaphor, not an order.

But you got close anyway?

Sometimes you have to. That’s what we do. The Marines are big on tradition.

She sighed. "The Agency never gets close. Not to anyone. We’d rather crawl on our bellies over broken glass than ask for outside help."

Washington is like that, he said. It wasn’t a value judgment, just a statement of fact.

Yes.

He looked at her directly. Why are you here?

She met his eyes. Your unconventional methods work, General, and you have a reputation for taking good care of your people.

She’s talking about combat. I’m not ready for this, Mike thought. His body was coming back, but it had been too close. He’d been too close. Senior officers do not belong in foxholes. Remember the lesson.

Her eyes were like laser beams.

Mike shook his head. You need to do more research. I lost eighty-three out of six hundred in Yemen. Over sixty percent of my force was wounded. That was my last combat command.

"I’ve done the research, she said. I remember when your picture and story was the lead on the nightly news, and on front pages all over the world."

Mike sighed. Some reporter had even won a Pulitzer. The media frenzy had mostly passed by the time he got out of intensive care. By then, the media was on to the next story.

She was still staring at him, her eyes demanding a response.

Silence lengthened. Finally he said, You should know better than most not to trust the media.

I also reviewed the classified action reports from Yemen and your medical records. The Marines said you’d never walk again.

They were mistaken.

The Army teaches your Yemen action at the War College. They say it’s the best example of a small force defeating hopeless odds since the Chosin Reservoir.

War stories are often exaggerated, Ms. Patton. I had good people. They prevailed after I went down. He didn’t like talking about Yemen. You’ve dug up a hell of a lot about me.

She nodded. You were at Bethesda Naval Hospital in rehab for quite some time after Yemen. You passed the time getting a Ph.D. from Georgetown in Mideast studies.

Do you know where you’re going with this? It had actually been a doctorate in government, with a focus on security and the Middle East, but he got the point: He wasn’t the usual Marine. So what?

I do my homework, General. You know the Mideast academically, militarily, and diplomatically. You were President Hale’s Mideast interpreter. You speak the Egyptian dialect of Arabic like a native.

I’m adequate.

You’re proficient, and you speak Farsi too. You know the culture. Your most impressive accomplishments are classified and you have Arab friends in high places who trust you.

Not really. He shook his head. There’s not a lot of trust in the Mideast.

No, there isn’t, she agreed. That makes you rather special, don’t you think?

He didn’t reply. He waited to see where she was headed.

Your job goes beyond being a soldier. The Marines are the best force we have for low intensity operations. You’ve got brains, and you use them. You’re not afraid to innovate, to embrace new technology. That’s why I’m here. I need your help.

Interesting, he thought. Did the agency send you?

She shrugged. I have a certain latitude of action in my current assignment.

That wasn’t an answer. She means, No, he thought. That’s curious.

Are you here on personal business? Mike said.

She nodded. Yes.

He didn’t believe it. What else?

Let’s just say the President, our mutual Commander in Chief, suggested I should talk to you.

And your current assignment is exactly what?

She shook her head. That’s restricted information, General. Let’s just say we’re doing a special project for the President. If I can persuade you to help, he said you’d have a ‘need to know’ and he’d brief you personally.

This somewhat limits our conversation. Mike frowned and thought for a moment. When the agency straps you to a lie detector, which I presume they do regularly, you’ll be able to say you didn’t talk to me about your work.

That’s right. She smiled wryly. Do you know why we call it NSA?

He shook his head, wondering what she’d say.

"For the policy, of course – ‘Never Say Anything.’ We never talk about our work to anyone without specific authorization from our direct superior, and we never request such permission. I’m here to pay you a social visit because of a personal request from the President."

In a pig’s eye, Mike thought. Translation: her boss would have her ass on a platter if she talked shop with me, much less asked for help. I’m ordered to talk to a woman who can’t say anything, and she’s risking her job to be here.

Mike considered her. It was obviously his move.

I suppose I can live with the facade. I’m just having a personal chat with an attractive woman. He smiled to himself. Just like real people. It has nothing to do with the twilight zone these spooks live in.

Okay, Ms. Patton, if we can’t talk about business, let’s discuss personal things, he said tentatively. Perhaps I should try to get to know you better….

She nodded, watching him carefully. He decided to take it as approval.

Just who the hell are you, lady?

Surprisingly, she smiled. My father is Colonel John Giles. He and President Hale are personal friends.

Iron John? he asked, surprised.

She nodded.

He glanced at her left hand, but saw no wedding ring. He looked at her more closely. She had John’s ice blue eyes. You’re John’s daughter?

I’m afraid so, she said. Dad’s a little controversial at the agency, and I wanted to make it on my own. My marriage failed. Afterwards, I had my name legally changed. Patton is my mother’s maiden name.

Your father’s controversial at NSA?

She nodded. He is. Definitely.

Changing your name is a pretty thin cover.

It’s not a cover; it’s a symbol, she said. I’m not my father.

Your dad retired and went into business, Mike said musingly. They say he makes crypto gear even NSA can’t break.

Actually, my brother Will is the mad scientist who invents things. Dad runs the company. It’s called Cybertech.

I’d expect having competition from a private firm might drive some of your bosses to distraction. I’d guess they’d be annoyed.

It’s a matter of public record that there was litigation between Cybertech and the government over technical matters relating to COMSEC, she said. It was some time ago.

Meaning NSA backed down. Mike was watching her carefully. Interesting. I’ll change my speculation to ‘highly pissed.’ Is that more accurate?

She shrugged.

Someone high up didn’t want communications security discussed in an open court. I’ll bet there are people at the agency who’d like to string John up for treason.

If you say so.

Are you telling me President Hale has a project running that somehow involves Cybertech as a contractor to NSA? he asked, pointedly. Why would he be involved in operational matters?

No comment. She shook her head. I’m not telling you anything, General.

Meaning, Yes, he thought. For a lady who says nothing, she’s telling me a lot. Iron John must have access to some killer technology, and the President must have banged some heads to get John and the agency to play nice and work together.

Your dad saved my ass once.

I know. I hope you might want to return the favor.

What exactly do you want me to do, Ms. Patton?

My friends call me Gerry. If you talked with the President about my visit, I’d be very grateful.

Don’t expect much, he said. NSA doesn’t take orders from the military.

She smiled demurely. They do from the President.

He looked at her speculatively, nodding slowly. As do I.

Well, there you are, she said. I knew we’d find something in common if we chatted long enough.

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and making a decision. I need to find out what the hell is going on.

You intrigue me, Gerry. I’ll look into it and do what I can, he said. How should I contact you socially?

When is more important than how. Soon would be good. It’s best if you called me at home. My number is unlisted, so I took the liberty of writing it on the back of my card. Her smile increased by just a notch. Her face was pretty when she smiled.

I didn’t think you’d want to get involved, she said. Was it the note from the President?

It got my attention, Mike admitted. Let’s just say I’m curious, and, like you said, I owe your dad.

Thank you, General.

Please call me Mike. I’ll be in touch, but I can’t say when. I have access to the President, but it usually takes several weeks to get on his calendar. Sometimes longer. Maybe we could get together for dinner afterwards and continue our social chat?

I’d like that. She stood and extended her hand. I think you’ll find he has an open slot for you tomorrow at 4 pm.

Mike took it, peering carefully to see if she was serious. Apparently she was. He escorted her to the door and stood watching as she walked away. Nice legs, he thought.

Chapter Two – The Best Strategy

Portland, Oregon

Ahmed Mahmoud Muhammad peered out the aircraft window, trying to see though the mist and the rain-streaked Plexiglas. For a time, he watched the driving rain in the powerful beams of the landing lights, but then they dropped into denser clouds and all he saw was a diffused glow through the fog.

What a horrible place, Ahmed thought, remembering his briefing. Oregon. Why would people choose to live in a land of constant rain? He shook his head in disbelief.

The plane lurched uncomfortably as the landing gear thumped into place. Flying was always a miserable experience for him, and this mission made it worse.

He’d been traveling for more than thirty hours. His mind was sluggish. When you get tired, you make mistakes, he thought. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.

The cabin lights came on, and the attendants started their litany about seats and tray tables. Ahmed shoved the tray into place, keeping his face turned to the window.

It seemed like a very long time passed before the fog thinned and he saw lights on the ground, but his watch said it was only a few minutes. They hit the runway hard, the engines roared in reverse, and the aircraft slowed.

Ahmed suppressed a sigh of relief. Stay with your cover, he thought. Don’t attract attention. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants.

Ahmed took a deep breath and turned his thoughts to the operation at hand. He needed to come to Portland himself. He didn’t want to come, but he needed to come. The planned operation was basic, but there would be serious repercussions if anything went wrong. That was how things worked in his world.

The point was driven home the day his predecessor, Colonel Quamar, was replaced. It happened in what was now Ahmed’s office, two years ago. He’d never forget that day.

It’s not my fault. Quamar fell to his knees and looked up at Supreme President Nassid. I’m loyal to you. I follow the teachings of Allah.

It is not attributable to Allah that he should lead you astray. He brings to life, and he causes to die. Nassid quoted the Koran coldly.

Nassid reached down and grabbed Quamar by the hair. He lifted Quamar to his feet and walked him over to the window.

Come here, Ahmed. Nassid spoke in a casual tone and without turning to look at him.

Yes, President Nassid, Ahmed said. He was shaking.

What do you see? asked Nassid, pointing out over the city. Towering black plumes darkened the horizon.

I see smoke, Sir, Ahmed said.

Quamar was sobbing. Nassid cuffed the back of his head brutally, slamming his face against the window. You see five years of work and half a billion petro dollars burning, Ahmed. You see the end of our ballistic missile program. That’s what you see.

Yes, President Nassid, Ahmed said. Streaks of Quamar’s blood ran down the glass.

I’m going to replace it with something better. I want you responsible for security. Nassid cuffed Quamar again, and he groaned in pain. This fool was responsible for counter intelligence, and yet our enemies knew exactly where to strike.

Yes, President Nassid, Ahmed said.

You will make sure this never happens again.

Yes, Your Eminence, Ahmed said.

Quamar collapsed to the floor, pleading for his life. Nassid approached, took his time, and kicked him squarely in the ribcage. Ahmed heard something snap. Quamar rolled onto his back, silent, blinking, his arms and legs splayed.

Take him away. Ayatollah Fouhad will handle his punishment.

Yes, President Nassid.

Quamar was moaning quietly as Ahmed pulled him to his feet and led him away. He started struggling when he saw who was waiting in the hall.

Ahmed looked out at the rain and fog as they approached the gate. The tarmac was slick and shiny with water, and the workers on the ramp were wearing yellow raincoats with the hoods up. The plane stopped with a jerk, and the engines spooled down into silence.

He kept telling himself the mission was safe. His cover was first-rate, the risk of detection was low and it was absolutely necessary he supervise his local help to prevent mistakes. Whatever dangers he might face here, the ones at home were certain.

Portland was barely an international airport, mostly due to local flights from its friendly neighbor to the North. Security was loose. The bored workers almost went out of their way to avoid paying any special attention to Ahmed when he stepped off the half-empty Air Canada flight.

The twilight war that bin Laden started had been going on for years, and, through it all, the Americans had remained predictable and legalistic, with their leaky, open borders. Their notion of political correctness still forbade the profiling of Muslims. Not that the big airports like Washington, LA, New York, and San Francisco were safe penetration points.

They were not. The Americans may be clumsy, divided, and tangled in their own bureaucracy, but they’re not all stupid, Ahmed reminded himself. Mistakes were to be avoided.

TSA consisted of drones in a mindless bureaucracy following procedure, but somewhere critical eyes could be watching him and it was best to not attract attention.

The big airports were hard targets, best avoided if possible. Six months ago one of his agents was blown when TSA found a harmless plastic bottle of shampoo in his luggage. He panicked, tried to run, and was arrested.

But this was Oregon, a distant, sleepy, sleepy province. Even illegal aliens with federal deportation orders against them were usually safe from scrutiny. He should be safe.

Ahmed didn’t commit crimes himself. It wasn’t his job. He was an executive with a limitless supply of young men eager to die carrying out his orders.

He didn’t like fieldwork at this phase of his career, preferring to work indirectly and at a distance, but his tradecraft was still good. He’d chosen the legend of a Saudi named Nassar Fuad, an actual banker connected to the Saudi royal family who was known to visit Portland periodically. Ahmed had all the proper papers, and the photos and descriptions matched his appearance. He even had biosculpted fingerprints and credit cards that matched Faud’s.

Those shouldn’t be needed.

The automatic alarms remained silent as he walked through the checkpoint. The four TSA agents seemed preoccupied with a white haired old woman, a senior citizen whose driver’s license had apparently expired while she was traveling. One was waving the license and lecturing her in a loud voice about having proper photo identification.

They’d opened her bag and had her belongings spread out on a table. A young man in a National Guard uniform was standing back, looking embarrassed, uninvolved. He had an M-16 slung over his shoulder, unloaded – the clip was missing – and therefore useless.

Ahmed would never understand the Americans.

The woman was sobbing. Ahmed pretended not to notice. He muttered excuses in heavily accented English, and they waved him through after a cursory glance at his ticket and Saudi passport.

No one checked Ahmed’s papers or looked in his hand luggage. They wouldn’t have found anything incriminating if they had. There were no bio-scans, and no questions. It went just as they’d said at his briefings and practice sessions.

Ahmed wandered nonchalantly down to baggage claim. He took his time, stopping in a shop to purchase a local paper and some mints. His baggage would be late. American airports were notorious for that, and it was best not to linger in any one public location.

The people here should be paying me, he thought. In a strange sense, the reason he was here personally was to help keep their state safe. Oregon was a useful sanctuary, and Ahmed intended to make sure they kept it that way.

I’m safer here than at home. But instead of comforting him, that thought reminded him that Oregon’s safe haven status was part of his current dilemma.

Make sure nothing happens that might cause Oregon to change its policies. Their tolerance for foreigners is useful, Ayatollah Fouhad had warned.

Ahmed feared the Ayatollah and dared not offend him. Unfortunately, his orders from Nassid were quite clear. They required violence.

My mujahedeen are eager to kill and die, and President Nassid wants an incidental problem cleaned up quickly. A simple bomb would do what’s needed, but the mullahs insist we avoid drawing attention. I dare not anger them if I want to live.

Ahmed forced his mind to tranquil thoughts. He relaxed into the simple knowledge that he was safe as long as he appeared normal and stayed in character. He kept his mind on his cover persona, ignoring the watchers that he knew would be observing him.

When Ahmed arrived at baggage claim, the first wave of passengers had already moved on, but there were still enough around for him to easily blend in. He’d timed it perfectly. As per basic tradecraft, he’d purchased a round trip ticket and checked one small bag containing TSA approved, innocuous items.

He took his bag off the carousel and walked casually out of the terminal. He didn’t look around, but acted as if he visited Portland routinely and was bored. He kept his face averted and avoided eye contact. It was important not to look directly at the security cameras he knew were scanning the baggage claim area.

Ahmed approached the first cab in line, putting a little more determination in his step, and opened the door. Downtown Portland, please. Naito Parkway, he ordered assertively. His English had suddenly lost all traces of an accent.

Okay, grunted the cabby in a bored tone, punching the button on his meter.

Ahmed tossed his small bag into the back seat. He slid in with his hand luggage, and closed the door. It was a nasty night, and the weather seemed to be getting worse.

He’d made it through the perimeter defenses, but this taxi was still a danger zone. Americans still had enough money to plant informants, bugs, and hidden cameras everywhere, and enough decadence, crime, and drugs so that they often did.

Ahmed had lost an agent that way. His man had stopped for tea at a coffee shop and was accidentally caught in a drug raid. In the end, his cover was blown. He was convicted as a terrorist just because he was in the wrong place at the right time.

Ahmed remembered the lesson. Accidental or not, attracting attention could be fatal. For all its talk of freedom, the Great Satan kept a close watch on its citizens. His cover was designed to divert attention, not withstand scrutiny.

Ahmed buried his face in his newspaper to discourage conversation, not that the driver showed any interest in talking. He waited until they were passing large trucks throwing sheets of spray. The driver, struggling to keep the cab in its lane because of the ruts and puddles of standing water, now had both hands on the wheel and was squinting through his thick glasses at the nearly opaque windshield. The wipers clacked frantically back and forth, leaving streaks on the glass.

Ahmed casually opened his bag, pulling out a shoulder strap and a rain jacket. He put on the jacket, slung the strap, stuffed his hand luggage into the bag, resealed it, and went back to his newspaper. The cabbie, fully occupied with his driving, paid no attention.

They entered downtown Portland and approached the riverfront district near the hotels. Pull over, Ahmed ordered. Let me out here. I want to walk. He pulled up the hood on his jacket and paid in cash, well-worn small bills. Keep the change.

Ahmed shouldered his bag and waited as the cab pulled away. Then he sauntered off into the fog and vanished into the city.

Jackson’s Knoll, rural Virginia

The woman looked like an aging news anchor, older than the usual crowd, a thin brunette with hazel eyes. I want to watch the sun set over your little millpond, she said assertively.

The waitress looked puzzled.

Seat me over there in the far corner of the lounge, by the window.

Yes, ma’am.

The woman ordered brusquely and slipped the girl a twenty.

I can run a tab for you, ma’am.

Do that, young lady. The money is to ensure some peace and quiet. I don’t want anyone seated near my table. I’m expecting a friend and we’ll want to talk in private.

Yes, ma’am.

The girl pocketed the money and rushed off to fill the order.

The woman scanned the dimly lit room as the waitress spoke with the bartender and returned with her order. The girl carefully poured the wine, leaving the cork as she’d been trained to do.

The older woman ignored it, and took a sip. Just put the bottle on the table. My friend won’t want a wine glass, just the whisky. I’ll signal you if I need anything else.

Thank you, ma’am. The girl retreated, taking the stand and ice bucket she’d brought to keep the expensive wine chilled.

Senator Harriet Stiles sipped the white wine, outwardly relaxed. This place was a good choice, she thought. She glanced out at the stream. The sign at the entrance claimed there had been a working grain mill there once, back in the 1700s. The little millwheel was a nice touch.

Harriet liked this type of restaurant. Its dark wood and discreet demeanor reflected the best of the old Virginia elegance, and it was far enough from the Capitol that she wasn’t likely to be seen by her colleagues or their staffers.

It’s quite private, she thought, an excellent place for an assignation.

That wasn’t her main intent, of course, but it was a delightful fantasy. Burt was cute, and she knew he was discreet. Maybe I can screw him while I’m screwing him, she mused, smiling to herself.

Things were going well. As an incumbent with a deep war chest, her Senate seat was secure. At this point no one would dare campaign against her.

Success felt good. I’d have to be caught groping an alter boy on video to blow a popularity rating as high as mine, she thought. Her power was growing, her wildest dreams were coming true and the man she was meeting tonight would help her move to the next level.

Burt paused at the door to let his eyes become accustomed to the light. She waved to get his attention, their eyes met, and he smiled. He